Prayers for a Good Man
by JantoJones
Summary: Christmas Eve is the time to ask for a miracle.


Unlike the rest of building, the walls of the little chapel in the bowels of U.N.C.L.E.'s New York headquarters were clad in wood. Spaced evenly around the walls were several stained glass panels, in lieu of actual windows. The room had started its life as a purely Christian place, but as with any international organisation, space had been given for worshippers of other faiths. For the main, though, it was still predominantly Christian.

Alexander Waverly rarely entered the chapel, preferring to keep his prayers between himself and God. Once a year, however, he made an exception. Every Christmas Eve, the Old Man made a special visit to thank the Lord for another year of relative successes and ask for the same next year. It was also a chance to pray for those agents who would not be home for Christmas. They'd been 'lucky' this year. Only three had been lost, which was a staggeringly small number. Then there were those on assignment. The Christmas period tended to be quieter, but there were still on-going assignments.

Lighting a prayer candle, Waverly was surprised, and heartened, to see many more were already burning. He sat down on the front pew and looked up at the large cross. He had another prayer this year, one which temporarily superseded any wishes for a peace. Mr Waverly always asserted that all agents were expendable, but there were some who had found a place in his supposedly closed heart. Those agents had proved themselves in many ways, and had made themselves irreplaceable. One such agent was currently lying in a coma following his rescue from a particularly sadistic THRUSH torturer, twenty-four hours previously.

The Old Man had lost count of the number of times the young Russian had ended up in medical. The cost of treating his numerous injuries was a source of constant battle between Waverly and Accounting. The bean counters had even asked if he could rein Kuryakin's recklessness in. They accept that injury was an occupational hazard, but this one agent seemed to excel at it. Mr Waverly had tried to explain that Illya Kuryakin was a man who was more than willing to sacrifice himself for the cause; that he wasn't, in any way, reckless. The results of his, and Mr Solo's, efforts far outweighed what they cost in hospital treatment. As far as Alexander Waverly was concerned, it was a small price to pay.

He wondered what it was that made Illya so willing to risk everything to preserve peace, then admonished himself. The answer was so obvious when you thought about. If you'd witnessed your entire existence being torn apart by evil, you took revenge in one of two ways. You either lost yourself to hatred, and took it out on the whole world, or you dedicated yourself to eradicating evil. Thinking about the skills his Russian agent possessed, the world was lucky he'd chosen the right direction.

U.N.C.L.E.'s chaplain came in and frowned at the sight of Mr Waverly. He was aware the Old Man was always there on Christmas Eve, but he also knew about Mr Kuryakin. Sitting in the pew behind Waverly, he offered up a prayer, before placing a hand on the other man's shoulder.

"I heard Mr Kuryakin could wake up in the next five minutes, or he could never wake up again. Christmas Eve is a time for miracles, Mr Waverly. I know the Almighty receives more prayers than usual on this night, but I'm certain he can spare a moment for a man as remarkable as Illya. You just have to knock and the door will be opened."

"Matthew 7:7," Waverly stated, as he stood up. "Thank you, Chaplain. Merry Christmas."

…

Napoleon Solo was not sitting in his customary place by Illya's bedside, but he was in the room. He was, instead, looking out of the window. Waverly's office and the patient rooms in medical were the only ones with real windows in them. Solo looked up at the billions of stars in the clear night sky, and offered up his own, fairly angry, prayer.

"I'm not going to make any silly promises such as 'if you let him live, I'll lead a better life', because that kind of thing is worthless. I'm just going to ask you to bring him home. Illya is too good a man for the world to lose now. He is important to a great many people. I know that's true of many people, but how many are alive thanks to him? If you take him, tonight of all nights, I will never forgive you."

"You shouldn't talk to God in that manner, Mr Solo," commented Mr Waverly, as he entered the room.

"I know," Napoleon conceded. "I just wonder why He seems to have it in for Illya."

"There is no need to say prayers on my behalf," said a tired voice from the bed.

"Hey, Tovarisch," Solo exclaimed, delight at the sound. "How long have you been eavesdropping?"

"I'm a spy, it's what I do."

"You gave us quite a scare this time Mr Kuryakin." Waverly gently scolded. "I shall fetch doctor."

As he left, the Old Man whispered a silent thank you to the heavens.

"I think he was worried about you," said Napoleon, with surprise in his voice.

"Can you blame him?" Illya replied, his voice no more than a whisper. "I am his best agent."

"Second best, I think you'll find, chum," Solo asserted. "I'm glad you woke up. Now I don't have to cancel my date tomorrow night with Jeanette."

The look which Illya shot at his partner would have wilted a lesser man. Napoleon simply laughed.

"I'm joking," he told the sulky Russian. "If you're up to eating tomorrow, you won't want what the laughingly call a 'turkey dinner' from the commissary. I'll pick something up from a restaurant and bring it in."

"Thank you, my friend. Merry Christmas."

"And to you Tovarisch."


End file.
